To Live is to Fight
by Zack Shelby
Summary: After Sirius dies, Harry finds new resolve to fight Voldemort stumbling into secrets, schemes, and power along the way. Grey!Harry Powerful!Harry
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter.**

**In this fic, the events of the Fourth and Fifth-year have switched so that Harry is going into the Triwizard tournament now and Sirius has already been killed. The only other change is that Harry does not know about the existence of the prophecy. On with the show.**

**Prologue**

He did not deserve to feel. He did not deserve to live. He should be with Sirius. Harry's control on his magic had been tenuous at best as of late and the cacophony of images and emotions threatened to overwhelm the dam of his power. His internal rage was physically manifesting and the very air around his person crackled with electrical discharge. The icy breeze still blowing into Harry's bedroom caught him in the limbo between conscious states and held him - coaxing him back to the world of the living. Like reining in a wild horse biting at the bit, Harry repressed his magic with a renewed fervour. The dull ache that ebbed and flowed through his body grew in intensity. A scream of anguish flowed from his lips as hellfire itself consumed his nervous system and forced him to yield to his torment.

A massive body crashed through the door as Vernon Dursley burst into the room; the ever-present vein on his forehead pulsating with a venomous intensity. The wind within the room grew still as Vernon approached the bed harry was clinging too. His eyes glinted with a malicious hatred as Harry cowered, fighting against a losing battle against his recalcitrant limbs in a piteous effort to run away.

Vernon's fist crashed into Harry's chest, the wound he had inflicted not hours earlier expanding further. Blood welled out of the barely healing lesion, a red curtain closing over Harry's chest signifying the end of a show – Harry's contemptable life. Harry relished the pain. Not only was it a distraction from the emotional turmoil that plagued him but maybe – just maybe – Vernon would go so far as to relieve him from the existential torture that some called 'life'. Just as Harry hoped against hope, his grasp on his magic slipped further.

A thread of power slivered between the cracks of Harry's mental barrier, tantilisingly close to breaking free. The coppery smell that Harry had grown to know so well filled his nostrils. Vernon's gruff panting ceased. Harry could only hope that the ringing resonating in his ears was the chimes of heavens gates. A land free from pain and suffering.

As Harry blankly stared at the lone bead of perspiration that idly wandered down his uncles meaty forehead, it struck him that this was the happiest he had been all week. He preferred the physical battering over the torture of watching Sirius die from every angle playing on repeat in his mind. He preferred it over watching his only means of escape and a better life being torn from his grasp and fall through an archway to never return.

As Vernon brought his fist forth with surprising dexterity and speed for a man of his stature, harry unconsciously immersed himself into his passive magic. Vernon's alacrity incensed him and as he looked into his beady blue eyes, Harry saw Vernon's true self. He saw a sadistic bully. If there had once been any good in those eyes, it had been succinctly quashed by greed and jealousy. Harry reviled the pitiful excuse for an animal that he saw before him.

With a clarity that can only be reached moments before death Harry croaked under his breath, "not everyone deserves to live," whilst simultaneously releasing every barrier to his magic that he had ever erected.

No longer would he cower. No longer was he powerless. His eyes glowed with ferocity and burned with the fires of self-righteous vengeance. It was not a desire to live that motivated him anymore. If anything, Harry would rather die than live this hellish life. No, it was not an ill-conceived notion of justice either. Vernon deserved to be punished but Harry's motivation was more sinister. Harry wanted Vernon Dursley to understand the pain that he had inflicted upon him for the last 15 years. Without 16 years of time at his disposal, Harry had to resort to drastic means to force him to understand.

Eyes crackling with power and emanating the very same green light that had flashed across his room that fateful night that his parents were taken from him, and with barely a twitch of his finger, Harry blasted magic forth. His arm burned with pain and euphoria in equal amounts as bitter red magic erupted from his palm and trickled down his fingers. The very air itself parted, distorting the area around him, as he tore his arm upwards. Harry emanated magic. The air was suffused with it and was imbued with a soupy quality as his arm tore through the surface of realty in an upwards strike. As his hand connected with Vernon's abdomen, the man writhed in pure agony, horror misting over his eyes. A throaty chuckle sprang from Harry's lips as he watched his pig like uncle squeak like the insignificant animal he so resembled.

As the magic pouring out of his arm grew in even greater intensity, Harry's grasp of reality faded in proportionate amounts. The crackling in the air inherited a deeper quality and thunder boomed through the room. The trapped magic within him begged for release. No, it demanded it. As his hand trembled with exertion, his body began to betray him, his severe malnourishment bearing its ugly head. There was only so much that he could feed of pure magical energy for sustenance. Food was essential for any man – magical or muggle. As Harry rolled forward and drove his fist deeper into Vernon's gut, he knew he would see Sirius again. He would finally see his parents. Harry begged for release from his earthly chains as he gave into his magic.

Raw magical energy carved new paths down his arms, back, and legs. His existing pathways of power was not enough so the magic found a way. Harry felt lines of pure agony pour outwards from his core and the manifestation of his impassioned rage burst forth – fiendfyre. As the fire exploded out of his body uncontrollably, Vernon Dursley's was the first victim. Harry watched with apathy as his body was wholly eviscerated. A carnal satisfaction imbued his heart as he lost consciousness and the dragon head of the fiendfyre protected its progenitor.


	2. Chapter 1

**As always, all rights are held by J.K Rowling. I hold no claim to Harry Potter or the Harry Potter universe. **

**This chapter is going to go into Harry's mentality and how it is different from canon. His treatment at the hands of the Dursley's would have left a lasting impression on him and coupled with Sirius's early demise which Harry feels responsible for, his resulting psyche is markedly changed. The first scene is set to before the prologue. The next is set a couple of days after the prologue. **

**Earlier That Day**

It was not a merely unsettling feeling that pervaded the tiny room of 4 privet drive. There was a tangibly draconian atmosphere. The very air was thick with tension. Harry's grasp on sanity was slipping whilst his face was twisted in a mental struggle. A biting wind cut daggers across his cheeks as it whipped across the room through the windowless gap in the wall where inch thick iron bars towered menacingly.

Icy sweat beaded off his brow and coagulated into his grimy sheets. An endless deluge of images flashed across his consciousness. As Harry's eyelids struggled open, burning green eyes were revealed shining with unshed tears. Harry's hollow gaze was out of place on his youthful features; yet another sign of trauma forcing him to mature well beyond his years. Hunger pangs gnawed at his empty belly. Was this the third or the fourth that he had suffered without a morsel of food? He was struggling to care. Scarlett blood welled within a shallow gash on his abdomen. The macabre portrait formed by the contrast of Harry's canvas white skin with the red splattering of blood was horrifying to behold. To be alive was to be in pain. Maybe, just maybe, he had done Sirius a favour by leading him to his death.

The wild magic that coursed through Harry's blood was perilously close to escape. His tenuous control slipping with the cacophony of images and emotions that washed through him; battering his resolve like endless waves. Harry stood on the precipice of complete annihilation.

Harry knew that he did not deserve to live. Even his current situation was more than he deserved. After all, he had not only killed his god father but his only living family. For Sirius may not have been family by blood but that made their bond no less strong. How many more would die because he was utterly powerless and equal parts gullible?

When he could no longer hold it back, Harry released a blood curdling scream drawing his uncle to his bedroom.

**Back to Present**

The auror office erupted with activity as a booming voice reiterated for a fourth time, "stage 5 magical threat, apparate to site in formation," and the bustling within the building increased. Any magical threat over a stage 3 was considered dangerous with Voldemort level power surges peaking at level 7 and group magical events maxing at level 8. Level 5 was the largest magical disturbance for over a year and warranted every available Aurors' immediate attention.

The site that met the Aurors upon apparition can only be described as targeted decimation. Number 4 private drive had ceased to exist and in its place stood an unrecognisable pile of rubble. An aura of malevolence rose from the ashes and the oppressive weight of the air indicated to even the most obtuse Auror that dark magic was pervading the very atmosphere around the house. The incandescent dragon of inferno was also a giveaway. A general visage of horror was plastered amongst most faces present as their eyes fell on the wielder of the ancient dark curse. The limp body of none other than Harry Potter lay in the center of the carnage, the remnants of a flaming basilisk curled around him.

It was not the utter mindless destruction amongst them that was most horrifying. It was the calculated nature of the destruction itself. The remnants of the house did not smoke, nor was there evidence of smoke every having been in the air. The ash itself was settled and neatly arranged in piles around the land. The complete lack of scent or sound was morbidly impressive. A completely combusting fiendfyre consumed the wielder's life force with unprecedented ferocity and burned only as hot as one's passions rose. It was therefore apparent to everyone with even a hint of magical knowledge that Harry Potter – the boy who lived - was broken.

With an eruption of yet more fire, Dumbledore announced his arrival; Fawkes crooning on his shoulder. The stark dichotomy between Harry's fiendfyre and the phoenix's power was not lost upon anyone present. A wave of carefree and enlightening energy burst forth from the pair, seeking to combat the dark energy in the area but to no avail. The familiar twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes was replaced by ponderous melancholy. Deep dark circles ringed his eyes, further pronounced by his half-moon spectacles. His wild hair and beard only served to accentuate the look of alarm broadcasted upon the Headmaster's countenance.

As Dumbledore raised his wand Faux nonchalantly settled upon his arm and once again erupted into flames. It was as if the phoenix had no regard for the somber mood of those present. With a subtle twist of his wrist, the master wizard dispelled the flames. The casual ease at which Dumbledore had achieved a thought to be impossible feat of magic infuriated the head Auror on site Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had been striding over to alert Dumbledore of his breach of etiquette in entering an active crime scene. The proud man had stopped abruptly midstride only to gape at Dumbledore alongside the other Aurors around him.

As the fiendfyre dissipated, Harry's body shuddered with both cold and trauma. Curious eyes wandered across the figure only to see the sheer extent of his injuries. Dumbledore was quick to the scene, rushing forward with such speed that it almost appeared that he was gliding over the rubble itself. As he fell to a knee next to Harry's prone figure, he leaned over him covering him from view. Like a lioness guarding her vulnerable cub, Dumbledore shielded Harry's body from the Ministry's agents' and with surprising gentleness, lifted the almost lifeless body up, cradling it. Then without even so much as a word of warning, the pair disappeared in yet another eruption of incandescent flame.

Dumbledore slumped into the plush leather sofa of the infirmary, a painful gargling sound escaping his lips. His magical core was utterly depleted. He had undergone an ancient and highly illegal technique of transferring magical energy. It was highly inefficient with, according to the books at least, a little more than a ten percent conversion rate. Harry's magical core had been so spent that it required even Dumbledore's vast pool of energy to be completely emptied to just keep the boy alive.

Madame Pomphrey slaved away at Harry's side as she had grown accustomed to doing over recent history. A sheen of sweat coated her arms as she muttered incoherently, twisting her wand in a series of utterly incomprehensible patterns. With a thrust, she jabbed Harry above the sternum where his clavicle bones intersect. The advantage of Harry being so blatantly malnourished was the ease at which Pomphrey could find anatomical features and sites for healing. With a flourish Pomphrey's wand flashed violet and Harry's eyes flickered under his eyelids before he became deathly still.

Pomphrey slid back into the chair behind her. "He will live," she muttered almost incoherently to herself. Dumbledore was fully aware of the events that had just transpired. He may be not be a healer but one does pick up a thing or two after 150 years. As he looked up to Pomphrey's questioning eyes he realized she expected a reaction from his impassable visage. With a belated sigh, he forced a weak smile. Pomphrey looked on in disdain.

"How could you let this happen you old fool," she exclaimed.

Dumbledore's trepidation about the imminent reprisal from friends, family and the press boiled over. He stood, twisted on his heel, and stormed out. The effect was somewhat undermined by the slight hobble in his step caused by his extreme exhaustion. However, he stopped mid-stride and for the first time in 2 days his eyes sparkled. A smile – a real smile – danced upon his thin lips. His wrinkles practically disappeared as he beamed at Pomphrey.

Pomphrey's questioning glare was swiftly interrupted by a gentle cough that wracked Harry's limbs. In a flurry of motion, Pomphrey jumped to her feet collecting the nutrition replenishing potions that sat at Harry's bedside, waiting for him to wake from his slumber. However, upon looking at her first patient of the coming school year Pomphrey gasped in surprise. An intricate weave of glowing emerald lines had wrapped around the now fully awake patient in her wing. If colours could relay intent, the intent in the green glow of his arm was clear. This was not the green found in ferns representing life in all its glory; nor was this the green found in lush foliage representing healing and regrowth. No this was viridian and it glowed of power and death.

"I'm a monster," Harry whispered, his eyes closing once again and the pulsating emerald light that emanated from his body dimmed to subtle glow.

**I am just getting into the rhythm of this story so expect longer chapters in the future. I this was a bit of a slow chapter but I needed to set up the characters. Enjoy and feel free to leave a comment!**


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